


The Vicar's Husband

by the_moonmoth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Vicar of Dibley
Genre: Fluff, Go with me on this, Humor, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Vicar of Dibley AU, neither of them can believe it's not butter, queer joy, the Sean Bean scene, yes we are imagining that c of e vicars can get gay married as well as straight married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27518728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: “Christ,” Crowley groaned.“Ah, no,” Aziraphale said, amused at Crowley’s expense in a way that was very much at odds with the dog collar he had just revealed. “Just his messenger on Earth."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 169





	1. I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

**Author's Note:**

> This is [all tumblr's fault](https://themoonmothwrites.tumblr.com/post/631984567737270273/yes-i-love-all-of-this-go-forth-friends-and), I swear! Posting these vignettes in the order they were written, which is _not_ chronological order. I don't know if there will be more, but I hope so. Title stolen wholesale from Summerofspock - thanks, friend ;) If there are any other favourite scenes you'd like to see my GO take on, feel free to [drop me an ask on Tumblr](https://themoonmothwrites.tumblr.com/) ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In homage to [this iconic scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37ficiqoE6U&feature=youtu.be&ab_channel=BritBox). In which they are both Alice Tinker...

Having secretly fallen for a God damned (blessed?) vicar, Crowley felt he was largely justified in sloping through his days like the human incarnation of the acronym FML. But, weeell, it possibly wasn’t _all_ bad. Some things were okay. In fact, the wine-soaked evenings in the vicarage were actually pretty brilliant.

“And then he brought out I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, waving his half-empty glass about as his voice went all high and affronted. Crowley watched him narrowly avoid sloshing a Very Nice Vintage Indeed all over the axminster with soft-focus fondness.

“Oh, unforgivable.”

“Served it to me just like that! On soggy crumpets, no less!”

“You should write a sermon,” Crowley suggested with drunken conviction. “On the virtues of- of- properly toasted bread-related thingies and authentic dairy products.”

“I always wondered about that, though,” Aziraphale continued pensively, ignoring him completely. “Who, exactly, can’t believe it’s not butter?”

“Er. You, wasn't it?”

“No, no I can’t believe it was I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, not I can’t believe it’s not butter.”

“Right. Good point.”

“Although I can’t believe he served me I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”

“I tried this stuff at a fancy farmers’ market in Swiss Cottage once that I could’ve sworn was I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and I couldn’t believe it wasn’t I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter,” Crowley offered helpfully.

“So was it or wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”

Crowley squinted. “Were you there? Feel like you probably weren’t there.”

Aziraphale ran a hand down his face in drunken confusion. “Don’t think I was,” he agreed.

“Because that’d be both of us that couldn’t believe it wasn’t I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. Not very believable, issit? Anyway, it was actual butter. Couldn’t believe it.”

“I’ve never been to Swiss Cottage,” Aziraphale mused sluringly. “Always thought it sounded delightful.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” Crowley told him, taking another generous swig. “Not enough butter.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, this is me,” the man - Aziraphale - said, gesturing over his shoulder at the pretty stone house behind him with the slightly overgrown garden. “You’re welcome to come in for a cup of tea and warm up. Or you can take the umbrella. Either way.”

Crowley mentally stumbled over himself for a moment. The strange intimacy of walking with this stranger under his umbrella had been the highlight of Crowley’s first sorry week in this nothing little village. And he was smiling so brightly it was like a cloudburst through the pattering of the rain. How was he supposed to resist that?

“Yeah, thanks. Tea sounds nice.”

In the hallway, Aziraphale hung up their coats to drip dry from an actual wooden coat stand, before unwinding his ridiculous scarf. 

As it came off, Crowley’s eyes caught on the man’s throat - soft, somehow welcoming, but that wasn’t what had got his attention. The tartan scarf had been bad enough but underneath it was-

“Christ,” Crowley groaned.

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale said, amused at Crowley’s expense in a way that was very much at odds with the dog collar he had just revealed. “Just his messenger on Earth. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

And he– he smirked.

Even as Crowley’s mental brakes were frantically grinding, the thought slipped through, _I am fucked._

“Milk and sugar?” Aziraphale called blithely from down the hall.

“Oh no,” Crowley whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ashfae asked for the ineffable husbands version of [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4z7fmYoKgcU&feature=youtu.be&ab_channel=BritBox), so here we are 🙃 cw for historical institutionalised homophobia.

Ever since the powers that be had finally caught up to the times and decided to allow gay clergy to marry, Aziraphale had had a recurring dream of standing at the altar all in white (not the white of his cassocks, but a three piece suit, something like velvet and finest wool), soft light slanting through the church’s windows, the pews full of his friends and congregants. A handsome man standing across from him. A coronet of miniature heroes in his hair. The kind of nebulous romance he’d been picturing since his boyhood. And for some reason, it always left him feeling unsettled.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to get married. He’d wanted it since before he knew he wasn’t going to be allowed to. And now that he _was_ allowed to, he should want it even more. Right? And Sean Bean (to whom he had maintained a loyal crush for several decades at this point) always looked so terribly handsome, smiling unabashedly at Aziraphale, as though he was just as much of a treat as the posy of crunchie bars Aziraphale was holding.

Tonight was no different. There were the pews full of people, there was the crown of bite sized chocolate, there was impossibly handsome Sean Bean. As Aziraphale walked down the aisle to meet him, his trepidation rose as it always did, but he pushed it down. He was allowed to have this now. So he should want it.

“Do you, Aziraphale Fell, take Sean Bean to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the officiating vicar asked.

 _I do_ , Aziraphale knew he should say. Tried to make himself say. 

“Um…”

He couldn’t do it! But he should. He had a chocolate bouquet! It was all perfect and he was supposed to want this, and yet…

“Um…”

“No! Don’t do it Aziraphale! It’s me you love, not him!”

Aziraphale spun around, heart leaping at the sound of that voice. Crowley stood at the end of the aisle, lit in a beam of sunlight.

“Crowley!” Delight flooded his body. “You’re right! Save me, Crowley.” He started towards him desperately, crunchie bouquet falling forgotten to the floor. “Save me, Crowley-”

And woke up with a start, in his bed in the vicarage, gasping for breath.

“Crowley?” he whispered hoarsely to the dark room. “I’m in love with Crowley?”

It was perhaps the least shocking shock one could experience. After all, he’d abandoned perfectly good chocolate – not to mention Sean Bean – without a moment’s hesitation. The evidence was fairly conclusive. And yet his heart would not stop racing.

He was in love with Crowley. Fancy that.


End file.
